Sekhet. Irene Miller
fruition a far more subtle source of power—the rich ripeness of soul that alone can appeal to humanity's soul—the flame that can set blazing the fire that lies at the heart of the race of man."
Evarne again parted her lips as if to speak, but without hesitation Morris went on with his homily.
"Whether you set forth to create pictures or books or music, you cannot possibly give more to the children of your brain than is to be found within your own innermost self. Only by having known the most intense, the loftiest, the deepest, in the whole range of emotional experience will you be enabled to put knowledge into your work, and without that, what worth has any work of Art? Believe me, ignorance cannot possibly ring true—truth alone can live and enthral.
"Now, believe me or not, as you like, Evarne, but I assure you that because of all this, love is the one and only teacher that can really evolve a great artist. Forgive me for thus assailing you on all sides, my sweet iceberg, but your happiness and success are very dear to me. I simply cannot bear to see you thus blindly and ignorantly opposing the unfolding of the bright flower of your genius. As I started by saying, your soul is still sleeping, and it will slumber on until you can become reconciled to letting love awaken it."
A protracted silence followed these last words. Evarne continued to gaze at Morris with the rapt expression she always wore when he was pouring fresh thoughts into her mind. This suggestion of a triple alliance between illicit love, the possession of a soul, and success in Art, possessed all the charms and the startling qualities of novelty.
"You are trying to make me think selfishly," she murmured at last, "but you must never believe that my own progress is of more consequence to me than——" She looked at him in silence again, and her eyes and her thoughts grew full of tenderness. Clasping her hands together, she went on, "And oh! if it were, I'm sure, oh! so sure, that the love I feel for you already is—is——"
"It is not of the sort that counts."
"But Socrates says that pure love——"
Morris interrupted her. He felt that this troublesome antique philosopher must be resolutely suppressed once and for all.
"I cannot claim as intimate an acquaintance with the opinions of that gentleman as you possess, little sage; nevertheless, I'll be bound that he supports my opinion. I can't definitely remember, mark you; I am only sure on general principles that no one who taught your pretty, sentimental rubbish—forgive me, sweetheart—could have contrived to get himself accepted for so long. You look—or rather we will seek together—and I'll warrant that I find and show you confirmation of my words."
That night Evarne retired considerably earlier than usual, but unable to sleep, and soon utterly weary of the darkness and her own tangled thoughts, she resolved to follow Morris's advice of the afternoon. She would delve once more into that master-mind that they had both invoked as upholding their contrary ideals.
Flashing on the light, she went into the red room, and returned with her arms filled with the six big volumes of Plato. Tumbling them all on the table by her side she slipped into bed again, and reclining comfortably amid her soft, faintly-perfumed pillows, drew a volume at random from the pile, then hesitated a moment before opening it.
She had perfect confidence that in these works of Plato no sentiments would be found of the nature that Morris sought.
"My dear one is unwise, after holding up fame and success as a bribe, to send me to read this—which is my Bible—and which teaches that happiness lies only in the pursuit of wisdom, of virtue, of all that is good," was her thought, as she lazily laid open the pages. Little did she deem that her bewildering doubts and difficulties were at length to be definitely solved.
It is hard to avoid the terrible belief that there exists a malign omnipotent Spirit at enmity with the race of man; an evil Power untiringly concentrated on watching for and contriving opportunities to work dire mischief—to create miseries of all kinds—to impose agony of mind and body upon all that has life. Not without some show of reason have there ever been secret sects of devil-worshippers, who recognise the existence of, and seek to propitiate, this force so hostile to humanity, this merciless Something that works with superhuman ingenuity to aid and bring to fruition that which is of itself—evil—to conquer, to destroy, to render impotent all that which is of a contrary nature; or more terrible still, to bend such to its own purposes, employing all that is best and noblest and sweetest in life and human nature as tools wherewith to work destruction.
Within a few minutes of opening the Oracle, Evarne was sitting erect, all her sleepy indifference and listlessness gone. Throughout all the time of her mental stress she had not appealed to these familiar works. What more could a further study of Socrates do than intensify her desire to remain his faithful disciple? She had deemed it quite useless to look for special guidance as to which of the two opposing courses open to her really led to the acquisition of true wisdom, virtue, and spiritual beauty. That she should now open directly at one of those strangely rare definite statements concerning right and wrong, was a coincidence so extraordinary that it is difficult to believe that a controlling intelligence had not arranged this apparent chance.
She re-read the sentence upon which her eye had fallen, vaguely wondering how she could ever have forgotten its doctrine. It was a portion of the "Phædrus," and referred to that eternal topic, love, or rather to a certain imitation of the glorious reality. This semblance was characterised as "being mingled with mortal prudence, and dispensing mortal and niggardly gifts," and its dire result was "to generate in the soul an illiberality which is praised by the multitude as virtue, but which will cause it to be tossed about the earth and beneath the earth for nine thousand years, devoid of intelligence."
Naturally, it was not a belief in the threatened aftermath of harbouring this "illiberality" that appalled her. It was the sudden revelation that the inspired Socrates—far from upholding and approving her present discreet line of conduct—would have condemned her for "illiberality praised by the multitude as virtue," as unhesitatingly as she was now willing to confess that she herself held it in contempt! After the first moment's shock she found comfort in the reflection that the opinion at which she had arrived independently, albeit slowly and reluctantly, found confirmation in the words of this great teacher.
Something outside herself now seemed to take possession of her body, and to control her deeds. Immediate action became imperative. Instinctively, almost mechanically, she sprang out of bed, flung her white silk dressing-gown around her, and sped barefooted along the corridor and up the little flight of stairs that led to Morris's rooms.
There was still a light showing under the door; quite steadfastly and without hesitation she turned the handle, and when it refused to yield she rattled it violently. Hearing a quick step inside she felt the blood surge to her head, but no suggestion of faltering or regret came to trouble her finally settled conviction. This seemingly wild impulse—being in reality the climax of long reflection—was far from being a transient ebullition of feeling. It was rooted in her will; and Evarne's will, once fairly turned in any direction, was impervious to conflicting influences.
In the unnaturally exalted state to which her highly-strung nervous system had now lifted her, it would have seemed a mere nothing to have walked into an arena of wild beasts for the sake of the man she loved—easy to have flung herself upon swords to give him happiness—yea, she would unhesitatingly have followed him to hell itself had he beckoned. Are those amid mankind who never knew the "madness" of Eros to be pitied or envied?
CHAPTER VII
ROSES AND RAPTURES
In a time of fair summer, amid varied scenes of beauty, the next phase of Evarne's life glided past—vivid, brilliantly happy—as devoid of apprehension or sense of finality as is the dream of a lotus-eater. As the spring advanced, and Naples became over-sultry for those reared in northern climes, Morris took her to cooler regions. Together they wandered through Switzerland and the Austrian Tyrol, and only with the approach of the winter